The Lost Dog

Before I launch into my story for this post, first of all, check out the picture of the vines! They seriously change every single day. I think the little blobs in the picture will eventually become grapes. The weather has been pretty sunny but it’s still not that warm yet (by my standards!) and we’ve had some rain as well. I see the farm workers out early every morning with various pieces of equipment, tending to the acres and acres of vines. It’s a big job. I have thought about offering up my tractor-driving skills, but decided against it given my tenuous grasp of the French language. I’d hate to accidentally wipe out an acre of vines because I misunderstood which button I was supposed to press.

So my story for this week actually took place in the vineyards.

Every morning I take the dogs out into the vines. We have a loop that we do which is about 4 kms and takes around an hour (as those of you following me on Strava will have seen!). I walk up a very rocky limestone path just off the road which takes me directly into the vineyards. I then follow the track — sometimes risking my life because the rocks make it incredibly unstable underfoot, and on the downhill slopes my hounds can get a little overenthusiastic on their leads.

I follow the path until I reach a small road which runs for miles through the vines. It’s the road the tractors and machinery use to get to the various fields. To complete the loop, I normally hang a left about 2 kms up the road at a large stone marker and head back on myself.

Last Saturday, as I approached my usual turning point, I saw something brown skulking through the vines. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. I’ve seen wildlife out there before — deer mainly — and I’m told there are plenty of wild boars around too, although I’ve yet to see one. In my head, whatever this thing was looked vaguely like a hyena.

One of my dogs, Arthur, can be a bit reactive to other dogs when he’s on the lead. My partner has long insisted that I should have been a dog psychologist, which I take great exception to. However, I do have to admit there are elements of Arthur’s behaviour which are explainable in very human terms. Clearly, when he’s on the lead and sees a “threat”, his fight/flight/freeze reflex kicks in. Unable to flee or freeze because he’s attached to me, he tends to skip straight to fight mode.

So when I saw the hyena sloping through the vines, I felt slightly cautious and decided to keep walking rather than turning down my usual track.

I walked quite a bit further before taking a later left turn. This was actually quite adventurous for me. If you know me, you’ll know I can get lost absolutely anywhere. I have been lost on Scotland Island (which is actually quite difficult to achieve) and ended up clambering through people’s gardens to get home. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I was sober when that happened.

I’m also completely hopeless in shopping centres when trying to find my way back to my car — my children think this is hilarious; I do not. And I have even managed to get lost in restaurants after going to the toilet and turning the wrong way on the way back to my table.

I like straight lines. I love New York for that reason — the grid system works beautifully for me. I also like retracing my steps exactly. So taking a different route was slightly reckless for me.

Still, I was doing ok.

About ten minutes after turning, I saw a man walking towards me. I immediately looked to see whether he had a dog with him because somehow he looked like a man who ought to have had a dog. But I couldn’t see one.

As he approached me, he started talking in French. A lot of French.

I could understand the general gist of what he was saying: he had lost his dog and had been searching for him for 45 minutes. He comes there regularly in his car… and on he went.

The problem was, he talked for so long that we passed the point where I reasonably should have interrupted with “my French isn’t very good…”

So instead, I let him continue while I nodded and smiled encouragingly, all the while desperately hoping he wouldn’t ask me anything requiring more than the occasional “oui” or “non” to escape from my mouth at what I hoped were appropriate moments.

Eventually he stopped speaking, thanked me (I’m still not entirely sure what for), and we went our separate ways.

I actually felt quite sorry for him. I know what it’s like to lose your dog. Arthur, unfortunately, has a full-blown Houdini complex. He escapes at every possible opportunity. He has escaped countless times on Scotland Island — which is relatively manageable because there are limits to where you can go on an island unless he suddenly decides to board the ferry, which thankfully he has not yet done.

But he has also already escaped multiple times here in France.

As soon as I notice the ominous silence that signals he has legged it, I have to drop everything, grab his lead and his ball (to which he is deeply addicted), and then go charging through the streets of the village in my Ugg boots and leopard-print Oodie looking like a cross between an uncoordinated large cat and the Michelin Man.

I’m fairly certain the locals think Australian people are a little strange.

It is genuinely stressful when he disappears because his microchip is not yet registered with the French authorities. I still haven’t plucked up the courage to take him to the French vet and, in addition to that, there is the issue that I apparently need to pay the authorities 11 Euros to register him.

And guess what?

The only way to pay is by cheque.

Sorry… what??? Not this again.

So as I continued walking, I kept a keen eye out for the missing dog and did wonder whether the “hyena” I had seen earlier was actually the lost dog. But I didn’t have the courage to attempt to explain this in French. I probably could have cobbled together something vaguely understandable, but after allowing the man to ramble on for so long without confessing that I barely spoke French, I simply couldn’t face the horrified expression I imagined appearing on his face.

About ten minutes later, I spotted the hyena again.

This time he was standing next to a white Kangoo van, happily sniffing around.

I looked behind me but could no longer see the man. I walked back for a few minutes and eventually spotted him way across the fields.

I started waving my arms at him.

Nothing.

I waved them again, more vigorously this time, rather like someone drowning at sea.

Finally he saw me.

I motioned frantically in the direction of the dog and he began running towards me as fast as he could. It took him a while.

The dog, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered and continued happily sniffing around near the van. I didn’t go too close in case my two dogs scared him off again.

When the man finally reached me, he looked where I was pointing and said he couldn’t see the dog. Miraculously, I managed to produce an actual French sentence and told him the dog was next to the car.

To my amazement, he did not recoil in horror at my terrible accent.

He spotted his dog and immediately ran towards him in full long-lost-lover style while shouting thanks back at me over his shoulder.

Dog and owner were successfully reunited, although judging by the tone of the man’s voice as he loaded the dog into the back of the Kangoo, I suspect the romantic reunion phase ended fairly abruptly. The dog appeared to be in quite serious trouble.

I smiled to myself and wondered whether the man had even noticed my dreadful English accent, or whether he had simply been too preoccupied with recovering his dog.

Either way, no matter.

That was my good deed for the day.